


A Dollop of Drabbles

by gigiree



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of drabbles that I've written for butterfly bog. Originally posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There’s something a bit uncanny in the lack of variation from fairy to fairy. 

They’re made of that same itchy, almost blinding brightness as the sun they so love and adore. Wings are painted colors of blush and dawn and light earthy tones, perhaps a few vivid greens, and the occasional purple.

But it’s the fake smiles and hideously false cheer pervading their gatherings that makes him uneasy. He knows what they say behind closed doors engraved with golden filigree. He knows what they whisper behind dainty hands and silver helmets.

And it’s never really bothered him. 

But this is different, because fairies breed like rabbits, and Marianne’s family is more than just a grudging father and a kind, but overly cheery sister.

There are first cousins, second cousins twice removed and aunts and uncles and great grand uncles and aunts. It’s all a bit overwhelming, but he wants to be a part of them  _oh so much more_  than he’s ever cared to be.

Because they are a part of Marianne and she is a part of him, so he must learn and he must demure for once to this false cheer and eerie brightness. 

And it would hurt more than anything for her to be taken away, because she’s so much a part of him, that it would be infinitely more preferable to pry the layers of his armor apart and cut out his own beating heart than to lose her.

There is also fear because he knows he is not like them. He is all sharp fangs and claws, and gruff to-the-point ways. Fairies are not like goblins. They do not readily welcome those who are different. They do not readily embrace the dark.

What they do instead is speak and simper and laugh harder and harder until the chandeliers and the gold trim and their colors blend into an overwhelming brightness that drives anything that is dark, makes it small until it has become nothing but a ghostly shadow.

So that is what he becomes tonight on this night of revelry. Their engagement announcement to the Light Fields…it’s a family affair… _her_  family and he has become her shadow.

And he has crouched down, standing the slightest bit behind Marianne, and occasionally catching his foot on the train of her pretty dress made of spun moonbeams and pearls and things he has never pondered before in his life.

There is a stark contrast, and it’s only the familiar sight of her sword at her hip that reminds him that she has claws just like him…only they are made of bright fairy steel and sing like sunrise when struck by his staff.

Marianne notices her shadow, and notices it shrink as the night goes on and one. And one relative after the other has tried her patience. They voice concern, and she has to stop the sneer curling her lips because never once have they cared about her well-being.

Where were they when she had cancelled her first engagement?

Where were they when her mother had died?

Where were they when Dawn had been love-dusted and Roland had nearly single-handedly snatched the throne from her still unsteady grip?

They are here now, giving disdainful looks to her precious King when they think she is not aware. Then when he is preoccupied by the occasional curious bystander and rude questions framed by beautifully lexicon, they whisper.

_‘Oh dear Marianne…we’re so happy…but what about that Roland fellow?’_

_“As future Queen, I understand wanting to expand our territory, but our army is strong enough without the need for this…”  
_

_“Are you okay dear? If there’s anything I can do, just say the word. You don’t have to do this.”  
_

And her hand strays to the pommel of her sword more times than she can count.

It’s only when the guests are caught up with the dancing and the honey mead that she can pull away without much fanfare. She is angry, and to all but those who know her, her tight smile gives away nothing.

But Bog…oh Bog can tell, and the fear lurches in his chest and uncertainty rips through, thorny branches grasping and piercing and curling until he has little room to breathe. Because the only piece of light he has come to accept and embrace is right in front of him, and he does not know how long it will stay.

It is different, but that’s what he likes…what he loves.

Marianne, the odd fairy, the one who is different, is brighter than those in the ballroom.

They are fireflies in glass baubles. She is starlight.

She is beyond and above them, and he knows that tonight he could lose her to ties of blood and shackles of family.

Because he has never been sure and the only thing he knows for certain is than he would sooner die than trap her with him in a cage of briar and muggy swamp.

But he follows, wanting to eke out every second he can when he can still touch her.

Her hand holds his in a grip so tight, her knuckles have become the same pearly white as her dress. She pulls him along, the clack of his staff and the soft swishing of her train the only sounds that mark their progress away from the brightness.

She pauses when they reach the gardens, the full moon too bright to allow little else to show in the sky. Her anger courses through her, and he can almost see her muscles being drawn taut, like a bowstring.

Her stance slides effortlessly and then without warning, she draws her sword with a quick movement.

“Stand up straight, Bog King.” She growls.

There is little time to cross his staff with her sword. There is little time for him to contemplate anymore of his fears because she is furious and she has bared her teeth and claws to him. He would be foolish to not strike back.

It’s not his way. It’s not the Goblin way.

And he realizes with a dawning epiphany that it’s not her way either.

The clang of their exchanges rings true, and she begins to speak.

“WHY? Why did you let them do that? Why did you let them walk all over you like that?!” 

He grits his teeth, afraid to admit anything, and he falls back onto an old saying.

“Blood is thicker than water.”

She parries his blow with a small grunt, and tears a new hole into the pretty moonbeams of her dress.

“DON’T BE STUPID!”

Her blade arcs and flashes starlight. But her eyes are dark here under the moon, and he thinks it the same kind of beautiful as the comforting shadows of his home.

The force of her attack is enough to disarm him.

His staff clatters to the floor, the amber jewel dull.

And she lets her sword drop to the cobblestone, because she has made a point.

Before he knows it, her hands are sliding up his chest, up his neck, gently cradling his roughened cheeks.

Her lips are on his, and there’s something all together sad and sweet in the way she tiptoes so he doesn’t have to crouch anymore. Her tears are warm, and her breathing is shakey.

She turns her head into his neck, her nose tracing the path down and down, sending shivers like waves through him.

“Please…Bog…I don’t want a shadow…I want you.”

“But Marianne, yer family…”

She drifts away in his unsure embrace, and like always, he lifts his hands. There is worry in his expression and concern and his eyes are bright blue with a truth she couldn’t find in not one person at that damned party.

“You’re my family Bog.”

“But-”

“ _You. Are. My. Family. Bog_. You, and Griselda, and Dad and Dawn and Sunny. That’s my family.”

His hands return to their previous perches, one at her waist and one threaded through her hair, claws catching gently against her skin. And his eyes are closed, but he can still see her burning bright and he is burning too, because _she is a part of him_  and he of her and that’s better than any old fairy lights.

And then she shows that she is more goblin than he when she bares her fangs and bites and worries a place at his throat that she knows is unguarded. 

A shudder ebbs and flows, making him arc and rise like the tide under the moon. 

She exposes her neck to him, small fingers guiding his head gently to do the same to her. To show just how much a part of the darkness they are.

Her wings flare slightly at the sensation, catching moonlight, and he bites to pleasure and to mark and because he knows she is one of the same as he.

When they are breathless and she parts from him, tears dried up and laughter quirking her lips, he wonders.

And she laughs again, and explains.

“The full saying is that the blood of the covenant is stronger than the water of the womb.”

“Meaning?”

“The family you choose is stronger than the one you were born with. And Bog..”

“Tough Girl?” He mocks gently, and there is a smile at his lips too and he’s tall again.

“I choose you.”

——

The message is finally received when Marianne and the Bog King walk in hand and hand. 

They saunter, proud and tall, starlight and night sky together, sword at her hip, staff in his grip and bite marks dotting the two grinning fools in love.


	2. What Is Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request with blood and bite, variation from first chapter. Zombie Au

The rain falls heavily, and there is nothing but gray and mist. Their tiny spot on the porch gives them little shelter, the roof overhead is riddled with holes and water tumbles through.

They’re getting soaked, and they know the peace and safety of now is temporary.

But still she’s smiling, and there’s a brightness in her eyes that he knows he can’t face.

She’s wrapped in his jacket. Feverish and trembling. 

They sit together, her shoulder pressed against his arm because she’s so small and he’s so tall. And there’s something in the way she leans her head against him that tells of something special.

Something wrought by hardship and danger and a camaraderie born of running for your life with someone by your side.

It’s lovely to witness, because it makes him smile wider on occasion when he is a man known for frowns and harsh words. 

But she can’t blame him.

This world has made him and her into roughened versions of what they once were. The grime has become a permanent fixture to their faces, the lines of worry etched forever into skin crossed with numerous little scars and scratches.

She’s still smiling, trying to fight back in the only way she can right now. 

There’s false optimism in her words.

“Bog…this house is pretty nice, isn’t it? I mean even if it’s all old and blegh..I think we could fix it up, and it would be really a good place to be home.”

His grunt is non-committal, and he can almost feel it sap away what little strength he seems to have left. 

“I think when we get married and everything is okay…”

She pauses, and there are many things left unsaid. But there’s no need to elaborate, because he fully understands.

Understands, but doesn’t know. Because up until her, all he’s known for years was blood and violence, and how to how avoid making sound when hunting for food and where the best stores of medication are.

Because up until her, he was alone.

She clears her throat, her voice wavering the tiniest bit and no matter how much he wants to pull her into his arms and tell her that it’s okay, he can’t or she’ll break…and that would be worse.

“When e-everything is okay…we’ll come and fix it up. And there’s even room for Sunny and Dawn…and we can go look for your mom…and..”

She notices now that she is not the only one shaking. 

She presses herself closer to him. To tell him that it’s not his fault and that she was glad to have met him.

But Bog is wrapped up in despair. He is used to being able to kill and bash whatever is in their way. He wants to now. He wants revenge and he wants to make them bleed…

And now especially…the world seems so cruel and gray, and he wants to scream and fight.

But he can’t and he knows what he needs to fight will lie in wait for him outside the door of this temporary shelter. There will be old, decaying blood spilled as payment in kind. 

What waits for him are the enemy and the ones to blame.

And he’ll need to fight them alone.

His teeth clench, because the thought makes him hurt in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He’ll be alone again and he doesn’t know if he can take it. He doesn’t know if he can keep himself from shattering into pieces as numerous as the broken glass decorating the interior of the once beautiful house.

He doesn’t know anything.

But she seems to hold a secret in that honeyed gaze of hers, because she looks at him now with acceptance.

She threads the fingers of her left hand through his, and they are steady despite her shivering.

And it’s with an ire so painful that he realizes he is crying. He is crying and he is resentful because he had promised he wouldn’t until  _after_. And he had promised to keep a smile on his face so she could remember him like that.

There’s no smile and no chance of keeping either of those promises.

The tears roll steadily down and a sob breaks free, strangled and wheezing.

And her embrace only serves to remind him of his sorrow and that this warmth cannot stay.

It’s only her confession that makes him still, makes him realize that they are kindred spirits in this moment.

_“Bog…I’m scared…”  
_

There’s her secret. There’s his undoing.

Because he is damned scared too. He’s scared of what’s going to happen, what he will have to do, and what he will have to say to the others when he comes back.

But he had made a promise when she lay in his arms and her blood was running from the wound on her arm…that nasty bite hidden under layer and layer of bandages stained the color of wine and dirt.

And come sunset…

He gives another coughing sob when the full weight of her request hits him. It’s just as heavy as the silver revolver in his pocket…just as heavy as the loss that will threaten to consume him.

But she’s scared too…and that’s all they have now…that and dreams.

Because before he can spill any old zombie blood, he’s going to have to spill hers.


	3. Fervor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request for fever and broken wing. Slightly steamy.

It’s a thing of beauty…When the time is right and the moon dances high and the summer’s heat raises something half hellish and half heavenly within them.

It’s the time in between her lull and his rise. The time when her passion is reaching one last magnificent crescendo and his is just barely reaching the summit.

It only happened once so far, something to do with the lunar cycles and the shifting winds and biological adaptations.

It only happened once and it is glorious. 

She is searing heat and molten gazes, swift touches and biting remarks.

He is indolent satisfaction, and languid kisses. 

She burns and he proves to be the perfect fuel to her fire.

And he thanks the stars and the moon more than once with his heavy brogue.

He thanks them for this beautiful piece of them he has somehow come to hold.

He thanks them for the pain and the pleasure of her burns and embraces.

He thanks them that they have crafted him from sharp edges and resilient armor, because he needs to be tough enough to withstand her intensity and to keep himself together on this night.

They lose themselves, fever pitch, summer heat, searing pleasure…

It’s all there.

When she throws him against the wall, there is a loud crack. 

There is also pain.

He is struck momentarily speechless by it and by the strength of the passions shaking her small frame. 

He is also speechless because he has had the air knocked out of his lungs and he can’t catch his breath because her lips are on his, and she seems not to have taken note and then…

Every line of hers presses against his, and they  _fit so well together._

The noise he makes is both a product of hurt and delight, and she can’t really tell the difference.

His attention is drawn away from the aching pain lancing up his back and is all on this fiery thing of starlight in his arms.

There is no cooling calm in his own gaze, and she finds herself burning brighter, because his cool blue gaze is made up of  fire…and because everyone knows that the blue flames are the ones that burn the hottest.

He is the pain that comes with keeping your hand on ice too long, and she is nearly numb from it…from his look, from his touch, from her own reactions that are both mechanical and biological in their perfection.

Together they burn, fever upon fervor.

* * *

 

They awake, and she is somewhat sated.

His time is not yet done, but for his own good, he must be physically restrained. 

“No more…not until that broken wing of yours is fixed.” His mother chides him.

But even that is not enough to stop him or Marianne from sneaking in a few rounds once she’s left the room.


	4. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble for fever and broken wing. Play on the symbolism of a broken wing.

For all the highs and lows he has experienced in his life, there are precious few joys that can compare with flying.

There are just as few disappointments that compare with having that taken away, however much temporarily.

But as he looks at the tiny, shivering thing settled into a too big bed of heather and covered in the thickest moss, he thinks to himself that this is worse than not being able to fly.

This isn’t just being grounded. 

This is sinking.

He should have known. He should have anticipated.

Because no matter how alike she may seem to him, no matter how tough her exterior, she is still a part of the Light Fields.

The muggy, cold rains and winter frost of the Dark Forest are too harsh for the likes of them. 

Her fever rages as hot as the anger in his heart.

It burns him, makes his claws itch to tear and fight.

But there is no enemy here.

He can only watch and pray and trust in the healers and in her strength.

And he is struck by her smallness…her iridescent wings are tucked tight around, in an attempt to keep herself warm. She writhes and twists, tangling the moss around her in a mess of a net.

She is just as flightless as he feels. Her wings are as ineffectual as broken things. They are merely heavy things to drag her down in her maddened movements…things too large and burdensome to do much good with this fever rushing through her.

A light knocking breaks his musings.

There’s a tightness in his chest, and it travels up his throat, scrabbling up and up. 

It seems to hurt more when he sees who enters.

Small hands, not as tiny as the ones grasping the sheets, but small nonetheless, grab his own long fingers.

They carefully wind their way through, soft caresses and shared pain tightening their grip.

And when he looks into Marianne’s troubled gaze, purple berry dye not enough to hide the bags under her eyes, he understands.

His wife is drowning just like him.

Their wings have both been broken in this instance, and no amount of blame will buoy them up to the sky they so loved because their daughter was sick and they were useless.

* * *

 

It’s only when the fever breaks with the rising of the sun that they are able to fly again.


	5. Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marianne gets married to the Bog King.

They decide that the place in between light and shadow, where primroses grow and ferns unfurl from beneath the shade of willows, is the perfect place for their union.

And it has all the trappings of a fairy wedding, but there’s touches here and there. Traditions and instances of darkness that peek from behind corners and around stems. 

There are colors and earthy tones because their guests are denizens from both sides, and there is an almost hesitant truce in the air. A silent agreement that this is different but for the sake of peace and happiness, they will accept it all.

It’s compromise reminiscent of Bog’s and Marianne’s relationship, but there is the thought that the bride and groom are far more similar than first impressions belie.

But the bride wears no white, but rather a dress of deep purple and the groom has the ugliest little boutonniere on his armor. It’s made of weeds and brighter blooms than her dress, and it is as if they each carry a piece of the other

Marianne loves it all with an adoration so fierce, because it is nothing like her first should have been and the groom has seen her the night before in all her naked splendor. There is no superstition here save for that of moonlight’s blessing.

She looks to him as the officiate begins, her eyes are bright, alive with something he has come to cherish. 

“This is…is real, right Bog? I can’t believe it. We’re here. I’m here.”

And there is a tender smile that curls his lips and brightens his eyes until they are summer sky incarnate. 

“I love ye, Tough Girl.”

And there is a cheer as they both say their ‘I do’s’ and press forward to seal their union. A kiss is all that’s left.

His kiss scratches, but it is a reminder and a confirmation that he is here, and that he is hers. But then, everything hurts, and she clings to him as a sudden sadness overwhelms her until she is nothing but a clawing, gripping thing of uncertainty in his arms.

“This is real, right Bog? I’m not-”

“I love ye, and  _that will always be real, Marianne.”_

And she wakes to find herself in a cold, cold bed with rumpled sheets. Her breath is shallow and her sobs are keening as she hugs herself in the dark night, no moonlight drifts through her window.

No light graces her life and all she is sure that is real is that Bog is gone and that he had loved her.


	6. Deracinate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Wild Things are not meant to be tamed, lest they whither away.

Because wild things are not meant to be tamed, lest they wither and waste. She knows that. She knows that, so she speaks to him, with all this in mind. **  
**

“I can’t do this anymore. It’s just-”

“WHAT?! What is it Marianne, why can’t ye jes tell me?!”

And she knows he will break either way at this point, and the only fear curling within her heart is the fear of hurting him. But she cannot shatter him…she will not let him break off piece after piece of himself all in order to fit into a world that is too narrow for his happiness and too harsh for that which is different.

“I don’t-” She whispers, and those ugly words are caught in her throat, bitter, burning, clawing.

“Ye don’t what?”

His grasp tightens on her hands, and he doesn’t notice the red pricks dotting her skin, or the very real trembling in her fingers because he’s too busy breaking in ways she’s not aware of.

_A monster…a wild thing…ugly, sick, wrong…I love you…_

“I don’t love you…anymore.”

_I don’t want you to break for me anymore.  I won’t let you. I can’t let them._

“Ye don’t love…me.”

“I’m sorry. “

_I’m a liar._

“But ye promised…ye said-”

“I KNOW!”

She rips herself from his grasp, and it feels all too much like she’s physically pulling off her own wings, tearing roots from a place in the dark she’s come to know as home. And even in her excitement, in the rush of a thudding heart and heavy spirit, she notices that there is nothing but the tiniest pricks on her fingers and his hands are raised in front of him, scared and hesitant.

Even when she’s lied and hurt him, he’s nothing but gentle…nothing but loving…nothing but Bog. And that was what she wanted to keep and protect. This soft and hard wild thing of shadow and sky, hesitant kindness, firm and fair.

“I know…I’m sorry. But we’re just too-”

“Different.”

_But that’s what I like._

“Yeah…different. It’s not working.”

“I see.”

_No, you don’t. I’m lying. Tell me I’m lying._

“I’m so-”

“STOP! Just…”

He lowers his hands, and she’s far now, a few strides away from him, his scepter, his throne. From everything that marked him as a king and as a denizen of this forest. Shadows and moonlight can only do so much to hide what he is and he’s surprised it’s taken this long for the sun to blaze and burn him.

“Just stop…ye don’t have te apologize. I still-”

He stops when he sees tears glisten on her cheek in the straining twilight that drifts through the skylight. The light seems to be embracing her and pulling her into a place he cannot reach. Even the dark tones of her dress and her hair and her wings are no longer as fitting here as he had once thought.

Her tears shine like stars, and he realizes that he holds no power there…no power to wipe them away and no power to comfort her because she does not love him.

But he’s learned. He’s learned and he’s listened and he is far too kind to ever force her to stay or make her reconsider. He’s too much of a king to ruin the good and the young ties they had forged between two kingdoms. But most of all, he loves her too much to ruin her dreams or shrink her skies.

“Yer always welcome te come back here.”

“Bog-”

She steps forwards, but stops herself because she knows she will shatter if he touches her. If he tells her that he loves her and begs her to stay, she will. She is no wild thing and has no strength against him.

And she will give him anything at this moment, even if he says-

“I…need some time right now.”

It’s his only request. It would be nothing less than cruel not to grant it.

And with that he’s gone, staff in hand and wings nearly invisible with the force he’s using to fly out into the waning sun.

Marianne does the same after he’s gone, because she cannot break until she’s far from here. She cannot keep her resolve in a place where she has left roots and love behind for the good of her wild thing. 


End file.
